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“What do you know about my work, Captain Fox?”
“You research nuclear fusion.”
“My goal is to develop fusion power as an economically viable energy source. Two days ago, a representative from our government visited me at my lab in California. He requested that I continue my research under their supervision. All my results would be exclusive property of the Department of Defense. I turned them down.”
“Surely you don’t think the government is trying to kill you simply because you wouldn’t work for them.”
“No. They don’t want my death. They want my work. And what better way to get it than to place someone, say a bodyguard, in a position where they had a reason to stay with me night and day? Even better, what if they sent a beautiful woman who would have unlimited opportunities to gather information?”
He could see the exact moment she understood his point. Twin spots of color bloomed in her cheeks—and he would bet it wasn’t because he’d called her beautiful.
Her lips thinned. “You think I was sent here to spy on you.”
Dear Reader,
This year may be winding down, but the excitement’s as high as ever here at Silhouette Intimate Moments. National bestselling author Merline Lovelace starts the month off with a bang with A Question of Intent, the first of a wonderful new miniseries called TO PROTECT AND DEFEND. Look for the next book, Full Throttle, in Silhouette Desire in January 2004.
Because you’ve told us you like miniseries, we’ve got three more for you this month. Marie Ferrarella continues her family-based CAVANAUGH JUSTICE miniseries with Crime and Passion. Then we have two military options: Strategic Engagement features another of Catherine Mann’s WINGMEN WARRIORS, while Ingrid Weaver shows she can Aim for the Heart with her newest EAGLE SQUADRON tale. We’ve got a couple of superb stand-alone novels for you, too: Midnight Run, in which a wrongly accused cop has only one option—the heroine!—to save his freedom, by reader favorite Linda Castillo, and Laura Gale’s deeply moving debut, The Tie That Binds, about a reunited couple’s fight to save their daughter’s life.
Enjoy them all—and we’ll see you again next month, for six more of the best and most exciting romances around.
Yours,
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Editor
Aim for the Heart
Ingrid Weaver
INGRID WEAVER
admits to being a sucker for old movies and books that can make her cry. A Romance Writers of America RITA® Award winner for Romantic Suspense and a national bestselling author, she enjoys creating stories that reflect the adventure of falling in love. When she and her husband aren’t dealing with the debatable joys of living in an old farmhouse, you’ll probably find Ingrid going on a knitting binge, rattling the windows with heavy metal or rambling through the woods in the back forty with her cats. You can visit Ingrid’s Web site at http://www.ingridweaver.com.
This book is dedicated to Susan Litman and Kim Nadelson, two extraordinary editors who helped bring Eagle Squadron to life.
Thank you both for sharing the adventure.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Chapter 1
“Dr. Lemay, get down!”
The cry was muffled by the lap of water in the canal below him and the noise of traffic at his back. Hawk couldn’t be certain he’d heard it. Curious, he pushed away from the stone wall that bordered the canal and turned around. The last rays of afternoon sunlight gilded the gabled windows and copper rooftops of Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s Old Town, but the street level was already cloaked in dusk. Headlights bored through puffs of exhaust. Against the glow of shop windows on the other side of the road, pedestrians were swiftly moving shadows, their shoulders hunched against the breeze.
“Dr. Lemay!”
Hawk spotted her then. A woman was running along the sidewalk. He had a quick impression of blond hair and an athlete’s stride before she disappeared behind a bus. As soon as the bus had passed, she leaped off the sidewalk and darted through the traffic toward him.
Tires screeched as a taxi braked to avoid her. There was a thud and the crunch of metal as a boxy delivery truck plowed into the taxi. It spun into the woman’s path. Without breaking stride, she hurdled over the taxi’s hood, slid down the front fender and kept running.
Hawk held up his palms and started forward. Was she suicidal or just plain crazy? “Stop!” he shouted. “Watch out!”
“Get down!” she repeated. She dodged past a station wagon and reached the curb just as Hawk did. She didn’t stop. She launched herself through the air, hitting him square in the chest.
Hawk staggered backward at the impact. She wasn’t a large woman but her momentum was too much to counteract. Off balance, he hit the sidewalk hard on his butt. His hands smacked the pavement behind him. His teeth clacked together, cutting off the oath he muttered.
Instead of apologizing, the woman threw her weight against his shoulders to knock him flat on his back. Before he could catch his breath, she spread-eagled herself on top of him. “Stay down,” she ordered. “The shooter is on the second floor.”
He lifted his head. “What—”
“Building across the street.” She slapped her hand to his forehead and pushed his head back down. “The traffic will provide us some cover as long as you stay low. Keep still while I call for assistance.”
“Ma’am—”
“Captain Sarah Fox,” she said. “United States Army.”
Army? Hawk twisted his head to look at her, but all he could see was her left ear and the curve of her cheek. She wasn’t wearing a uniform. She wore a black wool coat. A silk scarf in a swirl of tropical colors was knotted at her throat. The fringe brushed his nose, bringing with it an aroma reminiscent of cinnamon.
She shifted, taking her hand from his head to reach into the pocket of her coat and withdraw a phone. With her forearm braced against his chest, she used her teeth to yank up the antenna, then thumbed a button. She spoke rapidly in what sounded like Swedish.
As a rule, Hawk didn’t take this long to work things through. Sure, he liked to be confident of his facts before he drew any conclusions because he hated to be wrong, but he wasn’t normally at a loss. He could blame it on jet lag, or on the shock of being tackled by a strange woman…or on the sensation of warm, spicy-smelling female draped over his body and silk tickling his nose.
With an effort he forced his brain into gear. She was an American; she said she was from the army. She knew his name. She said there was a shooter. She had spread herself over him as if she were trying to shelter him…
Damn! She